Kiteline
by syviki
Summary: [14th Feb, Art/Gasuke] Youth is for breaking boundaries. — Rarepair Valentines 2015, #5


_ahaha, please don't go in expecting an easy read just because it's Valentine's. of course it's only going to get more ridiculous on Valentine's._  
_if you end up having any kind of interpretation at the end of this, I'd love to hear it! c:_

_Thanks go to BlindDestiny for beta'ing!_

* * *

Rarepair Valentines 2015  
[ Saturday, February 14th ; Fic 5 of 5 ]

* * *

"I love you."

The fragment of pancake falls from the fork as Art raises it to his lips. Sitting opposite to him, Gasuke has leant forward, eyes focused on Art's face, shining with some light that Art cannot see.

Art puts his fork down. "...Pardon?"

"I love you, Art," says Gasuke.

Of all their visits to the café, it has never been as loud as it is now. The booth has never been so tiny, the padded seats so consuming, the air so claustrophobic. Around him, cutlery tinkles and people mutter. Gasuke is serious. Not once does Gasuke's gaze drift astray.

The weight of realisation adds heat dehydrating; Art licks dry lips and spreads sugary aftertaste in the form of molten caramel.

Gasuke is waiting for an answer.

"I—"

Art's cut off when someone in the booth behind him begins shouting. Makoto asked me to water the plants, so I like watered them every day, but they still died! Oh, wow, do you think you might have overwatered them? What, is that possible? I thought water was a good thing. God, Makoto's _totally_ going to hate me after this, I can hear him blaming me that they're dead because I didn't do _enough_ even though he has no idea just how _dedicated_ I've been to keeping them alive...!

And then Art realises they're not shouting. He's simply eavesdropping on someone else's conversation.

Gasuke is watching him.

What Art had thought was simply an agreement they'd had over the past few weeks – Gasuke will go out with him, treat him to sweets, so long as Art would eat a proper meal at lunchtime – has turned out to be more.

Gasuke loves him. Gasuke is waiting for an answer.

Art's obligation is to give him one.

"Mr. Gasuke—"

"Gasuke," corrects his partner. "If anything is to come of this confession, let it be _yobisute_."

Dropping the honorific.

It should be fine. Foreigner double-standard or not, Gasuke's been calling him without honorifics or job titles for years now.

Art thinks of the time they've spent together, everything Gasuke's ever done to express the depth of his love, and tidies his own feelings so that they may be organised. Sorted. Rearranged. Classified. Then he takes certain care in interpreting them.

Dark eyes watch him patiently.

"Gasuke, I also..." Art's ears and neck are hot, blazing hot; the words lodge in his throat. "I... I would be willing to try."

Gently, Gasuke reaches an arm out. Dry skin and calloused fingertips brush against the knuckles of Art's hand. Art's gaze is drawn back to Gasuke, and meets widening eyes and a growing grin. Gasuke's mouth is moving, but no sound leaves him, but Art understands. The butterflies in his stomach understand. They burst into sparks and pass away.

"T-thank you," says Gasuke.

Art smiles back at his speechless partner and returns to his pancakes again.

* * *

The first time they met, it was during a murder case.

"—furthermore, class characteristics on the round reveal it was fired from a shotgun," said Detective Art. Forensics had shared their findings a short while ago. "Given that witness's report confirms the criminal's M.O., I'd like to suggest we examine the boathouse here," and he pointed to the map on his phone, "for any traces of suspicious activity."

Inspector Gasuke's hair hadn't turned white yet, nor was it long enough to tie. He crushed the remains of his cigarette inside a portable ashtray.

"Not bad, kid," he said.

Art tried to refrain from bristling and simply replied with a smile. Unlike those with the Minimum, it hadn't been enough to simply graduate from Facultas in order to be placed into a job; two more weeks of fieldwork and he'll move on to proving his ability as an Inspector in charge of detectives of his own. He may be young, he may have had Nice as his best friend, but he was not an incompetent child. He was the first graduate without a Minimum, and most likely the last. The pride from that accomplishment had still yet to fade at the time.

Apparently Art wasn't successful enough at hiding his irritation, because Gasuke's gaze lingered.

"Would you prefer I called you Art?" he asked.

Art inclined his head. "Whatever you would like, _Inspector._"

"Okay, Art," said Gasuke, ignoring Art's hint altogether. "Anyway, that boathouse was actually involved in another case, and I'll need to wait for word from Yoshida back on HQ. Until then—"

"But this is _our_ case!" Art froze. Where did the outburst come from? Youth and inexperience. He backtracked. "I mean to say—the weather forecast predicts rain later this evening. If we don't go now, sir, there would be no knowing what would happen to any evidence left."

There was a long silence. Gasuke tapped his chin.

"So you're suggesting that Yoshida's crew might have missed something we need since they've been focused on their thing?" he asked.

Art nodded with more resolution than he felt.

"Alright, that might actually work." Gasuke reached for his phone, but paused for a moment to clap Art on the back. "I like your fire. Don't go losing it."

The case was closed due more to Gasuke's efforts than Art's own work, but Gasuke still attributed the bulk of the credit to him. When Art reached Inspector, he didn't meet Gasuke once, nor did he have any time to think of the man.

Then Art became Gasuke's superior.

After his promotion, the first person he sought out was Gasuke, and Gasuke laughed.

"About time you did, Art," he said, bypassing the title of Superintendent altogether. "Still fanning those flames, I hope? I've been waiting for a boss like you."

* * *

If Art expects anything to change after the confession, he would have been disappointed. Work resumes as it always has. Gasuke still shadows him, assists him, completes tasks and follows orders in all the same ways. A mutual agreement, unspoken, to keep work as work and their relationship secret.

The only things that change are Art's own perception and the conspicuous presence of _yobisute_.

His colleagues notice. The first few times Art calls for Gasuke without honorifics, he receives startled glances, but none deign to comment. Art presumes they've concluded that Gasuke's finally gotten to him, or that it has something to do with his strange Facultas ways. He hears them talk about Facultas, especially after meetings where he's the youngest by several decades; Facultas, that place which churns out all those genii in the upper ranks of so many corporations, with all the foreigners and half-bloods and few full native Japanese of their own. All this Western influence, these increased demands for formal persecutions now rather than simply settling for an agreement away from all the paperwork, and everyone trying to drop honorifics at the first opportunity... The youth with all their internet don't respect the nation or common courtesy these days. Makes you old when you think about how the world is changing, doesn't it? There's never been as much paperwork before – that's for sure!

Gasuke treats him to cake later and comments that Art's smile when thanking the waitress isn't as confident as usual.

"As usual?" asks Art.

"You know," Gasuke replies. He rests his elbows against the table and points his index fingers toward the corners of Art's mouth, then draws them apart, mimes pulling. "Wide smile and smiling eyes. Everyone calls it your charm point."

Art blinks. "I've never heard anything like that. Are you sure, Gasuke?"

Nervous sparks dance in his chest. He tries to ignore them.

It's been a week, but the honorific is something Art still isn't used to dropping.

"Hmm," says Gasuke, tapping his chin. "Would you smile for me?"

Art does. His cake arrives, and Art automatically turns toward the waitress to receive it without dropping his smile. She flushes a brilliant scarlet.

When she's gone, Gasuke begins to chuckle.

"Looks like you're alright," he says. "You've just gone and reserved that smile for me."

* * *

The first time they go out together when it's not during their break, Gasuke decides that they should go to Minato Mirai.

Gasuke buys him a crêpe to apologise for his seasickness, otherwise he would have wanted both of them to go into the harbour. Art shakes his head; "I'm not too fond of boats either," he admits, and then the two of them share silent laughter in the form of smiles before Gasuke leads him along the footpath at the water's edge. Art bites into the crêpe when Gasuke begins remarking about how the skyline's changed. Cream melts in Art's mouth and the sun begins to set in the distance. Rays of golden fire dissolve against building-block teeth and lapping-tongue waves. Sweet honey light illuminates the rugged canvas of Gasuke's features, chiselling handsomeness, overpowering wrinkles and maturity.

The crêpe is finished and the horizon consumes the sun.

Dusken atmosphere floats in. Powder pink and dusty orange. Street lamps become guideposts and buildings become lanterns. The insectile buzzing of cars intensifies, sounds carried through crisp air even from a few streets away. People migrating back to their homes, except Art and Gasuke.

And except the couples around them on their own evening stroll.

They're young. Holding hands. They have been there but it isn't until now that Art begins to notice them. And now, there is no sunlight to deceive Gasuke's age. Art is unsure whether to walk next to Gasuke or slightly further away.

The bright Ferris wheel approaches and the first comment Art hears is that Gasuke is his father.

"Okay, Art?" asks Gasuke, sensing his apprehension before Art does himself.

Art wonders. And then he coughs, holds a hand before his mouth and nose, when the stench of cigarette smoke is carried toward him, burning his throat. He spots those responsible. It's a group of highschool delinquents loitering off the footpath, and the tiny flames with what they're playing.

Art never replies.

It's when the door to their car in the Ferris wheel closes that Gasuke says, "Is it that bad?"

"Pardon?" says Art. He's taken a seat already.

There's a jolt as the engine starts and the wheel begins to spin.

Gasuke quickly lets go of the handle he'd instinctively reached for. "The cigarettes."

"Oh," says Art. "Well, I think... there is so much scientific evidence to cancel out any benefit they could possibly contain. I would not ever plan on taking up the habit on my own. But it is something I cannot avoid in this culture."

"You can just say you don't like them. No need to be so formal."

Art pauses, then smiles apologetically. "Sorry. I'm not sure when I slipped."

Gasuke smiles back.

The car rises. Art watches the people and the roads and the buildings shrink, smaller and smaller, until the only thing that remains of Yokohama is a field of bright lights framing the Earth's faint curvature.

"I'll quit," says Gasuke.

"What?"

Gasuke reaches out to touch one of Art's hands.

"I'll quit," repeats Gasuke. "You're right. I'll stop smoking."

Art turns to him, sees determination stony-firm, and a magnetic gaze so powerful he can no longer pull away. The Ferris wheel stops so that a car of its old passengers may depart and a car of its new passengers may enter. Their car is at the very apex, but in their moment, neither realise how fortunate they are to have such scenery.

There is only breathing between them for an eternity.

Art shifts the hand in Gasuke's touch so that he can return the grip with his own, and smiles.

"Thank you, Gasuke."

They're still holding hands, revolutions later, when their ride comes to a close. Art is looking through the window. It has well become night-time; outside, it is impossible to tell buildings from sky and lights from stars. He looks ahead into the distance and sees the footpath they'd walked along earlier in the evening; he sees bright lights, couples on a walk, families and their children linked hand-in-hand. Some laughing, some pointing, some wearing an expression that suggests they'd rather be anywhere but there. The world is so wide when viewed from up so high.

The Ferris wheel slows; it is their time to disembark.

* * *

Art opens his eyes and stares at his ceiling.

* * *

Gasuke must have sensed Art's self-consciousness without it being mentioned, because he doesn't offer to take Art out again. Their outings become limited to each of their apartments. The privacy of their own homes.

As a chef, Gasuke's signature dishes are grilled meats and a handmade, hearty ramen. Art watches him knead the dough for the noodles, arms and muscles flowing in fluidity. Sometimes he adds more water and sometimes more flour, according to some instinct Art did not own. Art's own repertoire consists of boxed curry, simple napolitan, and a chocolate tiramisu. Enough to feed himself, just barely, but not enough for treating another.

Gasuke brings confections when he visits, claiming he needs to be forgiven for all the savoury. Toffees, assorted mochi, exotic artisan fudge. Art will never need to buy sweets again for the rest of his life.

But one day Gasuke arrives with white roses and asks, "May... May I kiss you?"

They are not sparks in Art's heart but electric shocks when he nods his head carefully and agrees.

Gasuke puts a hand behind Art's neck, and fingers brush at the bottom edge of his hair. He draws closer; Art's hands are lost, unsure where to go; but one look at the vividity in Gasuke's gaze and he becomes anchored where he stands.

It isn't him in his body when their lips touch. He's seeing their heads together from afar. The world grows hypersurreal.

It's not intense.

Gasuke's other hand makes its way to Art's back. Art remembers the existence of his arms, and realises he can wrap them around Gasuke too. He does. A gasp leaves Gasuke's mouth, pushes against Art's lips, and that's when Art feels it; Gasuke's grip shifting from Art's neck to the back of his head, the hand on Art's back moving down to his hips, and everything catching on fire.

It's not intense.

Gasuke presses against Art, now, and Art grips him back. Art's never felt so hot. The butterflies have returned to his stomach now, but even they cannot survive in the heat of the furnace. Is he sweating? Of course he's sweating. Everything is smouldering. Art finally parts his lips, and he's breathing onto Gasuke's cheek now, and his sweat is turning into steam. Was he sweating to begin with? What colour is the sky?

It's not intense.

It's simply slow.

Gasuke's warm grip is playing with Art's hair and Art's arms are looped around Gasuke's neck by the time Art pulls away. Art turns around and starts coughing.

"Art!" and Gasuke is there, concerned, one hand on Art's shoulder. "Is there something..."

Art shakes his head.

"Water," he says.

He attempts to stand up, but sways. There isn't enough oxygen in his bloodstream. Does he have feet, fins, lungs or gills? His head is afog and his heart is still on fire. A glass is pressed into his hand, its surfaces cold and wet, and Art takes one look at the water within it before gulping it down without any thanks.

Art falls into a chair before his legs give out on him, clutches his heart, and sighs.

A silence settles in.

"You taste like chocolate," says Gasuke, breaking it.

Art looks to him. Front and back, both of Gasuke's ponytails are askew. Art remembers the sensation of an elastic band between his fingers and feels ghostly facial hair scratching at his chin.

"I was eating some earlier," says Art, because he was. "You... taste warm."

Gasuke starts to laugh. It takes a while before Art finally joins him.

* * *

The first time Gasuke goes down, Art shivers.

Gasuke stops, draws away. But between the span of one blink and the next, he looks unfamiliar to Art's perception. Art concludes it's because there's less sunlight entering the room; perhaps a cloud had moved, cast its shadow. An illusion from lessened glow off hair and less glow off skin. In that moment, Art found it difficult to breathe. His throat had choked.

Now only drowsiness dreary attempts to cocoon his control.

"You alright?" asks Gasuke. He'd crawled up again, always understanding; always concerned at the first hint of discomfort. "We don't have to do this if you—"

Art cuts him off.

"It's fine," he says. "You just – you simply stopped blocking the window. I... didn't expect the breeze."

Gasuke's eyes soften. He lowers himself back against Art's torso, and his lips meet the nape of Art's hair. Naked skin touches naked skin. Art reaches up beneath Gasuke's arms, wraps around those taut shoulders so that he would not clench his fists, and his fingers leap from Gasuke's neck and down each bony ridge of Gasuke's spine.

"I'll warn you next time," murmurs Gasuke.

His breath is hot against Art's neck. Art's grip tightens. He smells polished sandalwood and spicy peppercorn.

Gasuke receives a wordless nod in reply.

* * *

A young university student is killed in a love hotel.

It's a murder-suicide. Takara Keiko is the name given to the victim, aged nineteen. Her killer was one Chiba Takashi, forty-seven, according to the identification in his wallet, a white-collar salaryman. The photos are gruesome: burn marks, shredded clothes, white sheets dyed red. Both bodies naked: hers tied at her wrists and ankles, blindfolded and gagged, stabbed several times; his hanging lifelessly from a rope affixed to the ceiling light, strangled after falling off the bed in surprise. Several water bottles filled with vodka were found at the scene, along with a lighter, and Art has no doubt that Chiba had intended to set the place on fire.

But he never manages to do so.

Art would not have taken a third look at the case if Hamatora had not intervened.

When Art arrives at the questioning room, expecting two, only Nice is there. He's lounged back, balancing on the chair's hind legs, rocking back and forth with his hands against the edge of the table. His earphones have been taken as a precautionary measure. Fingers tap impatiently to some beat only Nice can hear.

"Yo, Art," says Nice, lifting a hand to wave at him. "I didn't know you were on this case."

"Somebody needs to bail you out if Murasaki isn't here to do so," says Art. He's joking, and by the way Nice's eyebrows go up, he realises it means Art will only let him go once he's gotten every bit of information he owns. "Where is Murasaki, by the way?"

"At home, probably. Called this a cheap case so I was left to do it myself."

Art accepts the invitation. "Will you tell me what happened?"

Nice does so.

Takara Keiko has a history with Chiba that extends back to her time in high school, where she engaged in compensated dating with the man. He would pay her to go on dates, for sexual favours, and she readily complied. For a period, both were dating without any reimbursement, until she cut off all communication upon entering university. He became obsessed with her, unhealthily: leaving dozens and then hundreds of messages via every means of communication possible; asking if they may meet again, inviting her to dinner, but she never once replied. Her sister, concerned, contacted Hamatora; had Nice keep an eye on the situation because she would not be able to do so.

"...but just when her sister finally left the country," says Nice, "our little miss victim arranged a meeting with her would-be killer. I managed to get there before he torched the place up, and well," Nice gestures with one arm, "here we are."

"I see," says Art. "Is that all?"

At one point in his explanation, Nice lowered himself back atop all four of the chair's legs. Nice leans forward, rests his elbow against the table, and scratches a bandage on his cheek thoughtfully. There's a breeze. It carries Nice's scent to Art's nose: baked almonds and woodland dew.

Art doesn't find it unpleasant, though he finds it most untimely. Sniffing his best friend is not high on his list of things to do.

"Hmm," Nice says, thoughtfully. "There is one thing."

"Which is...?"

Nice tilts his head back and looks upwards. "When she made the call that would lead to her death, she was smiling."

"Smiling?" asks Art.

"Yeah. Even though the guy spent ages harassing her."

Art files the knowledge into some corner of his brain and makes to leave. Nice takes longer, but eventually the two of them walk out together.

"While that may be interesting, it's unlikely it has any relevance to our justice system," Art says. "I'll have your story cross-checked—"

"You say that like you don't believe me," says Nice.

Art smiles and returns the headphones. "You can never be too careful." Then he spots a familiar face, waves them over. "Gasuke, mind helping Nice out of the station?"

When Art gets off work that day, he finds Nice waiting for him in the lobby. He asks Gasuke to go ahead. Gasuke lingers, until he sees Nice and leaves him be. In that time, Nice has spotted Art and risen to his feet, lifting an arm in case Art hasn't noticed. Above his belt, there's a brief flash of skin.

Not for the first time, Art wishes that Nice would wear a longer shirt. The blue barely covers his stomach, and Art knows he isn't poor enough that he can't buy new clothing. Nice's CD collection attests to it.

"Nice," Art greets.

The arm is lowered and Nice grins. "Art. Hey. When'd you drop the honorific with gramps there?"

"A while ago," says Art.

It's so long ago that, although their relationship is still secret, when they're not conducting police business Art no longer feels anxious calling Gasuke by name.

"Huh," says Nice. His expression changes: his eyes stop laughing, and his gaze reveals its cutting fangs. He's getting to the topic. "Can I ask you something?"

Art's guard rises. "What is it?"

"Do you think she loved him?"

The question takes Art by surprise; he'd been preparing to deflect questions about Gasuke.

"Pardon?"

"Takara Keiko, and her killer," is the reply. "What do you think was going on there?"

Nice is staring at him, challenging him. Art's heart stirs and his smile fades away. He'll take the challenge.

He thinks back to everything he knows.

Several long seconds pass, then almost a minute, and Nice simply stands there waiting for an answer.

"I think she did," says Art. "After all, you'd said you'd seen her smiling. Chiba did love her, given his attention. Perhaps she finally recognised that, saw her sister's departure as an opportunity to reconcile, and overcame what had caused her to distance herself away."

His reply doesn't quite satisfy Nice, who looks aside and frowns.

"That's funny," Nice remarks, idly.

"What is?"

Nice jabs a thumb where he'd been looking, and Art follows it to find Gasuke loitering by the doors, obviously waiting.

"When I asked him," says Nice, "he said no."

In Art's chest, something stirs. He reminds himself to keep his expression under control.

"And you?" asks Art.

"Probably not."

Art notes the small smirk. "Are you saying that just to disagree with me?"

"Well, think about it," and Nice draws both arms behind his head; the brief flash of skin Art had seen earlier is now an exposed midriff, and Art does his best to dismiss it. "If she was ignoring him for so long that he sent _hundreds_ of messages to her, either he had to be a creeper with no self-restraint or she realised he wasn't so great and wanted to avoid him, right?"

"Then her smile..."

"Maybe she was smiling because she anticipated some freedom." Nice shrugs. "Still, you could be correct. At this point, only dead Takara Keiko knows."

_But_, thinks Art once he leaves, _Nice and Gasuke agree with one another._

* * *

"Takara Keiko..."

"Hmm?" murmurs Gasuke.

It's not the first time Art thinks about work in bed, but it's certainly the first time he's thought about it while sleeping with Gasuke.

"Nothing," says Art. "Don't worry about it."

Gasuke stirs. "I wish you wouldn't burden yourself."

"Are you asking for more paperwork?"

"If that's what it takes for you to relax, Superintendent."

"Then..." Art casts his mind back to his desk. "The Ichikawa files need finalising. That arson in Takashima which Yoshida was working on will... probably be in..."

He trails off into a yawn.

"Go to sleep, Art," says Gasuke. An arm snakes around Art's waist. "You can boss me around tomorrow."

Art isn't ready to begin his journey toward the land of dreams. He swallows the build-up in his mouth.

"Do... you think I love you, Gasuke?"

He's replied with silence. The only sound is Gasuke's heavy breathing; Art has concluded that he's fallen asleep and had resigned himself to not receiving an answer when Gasuke finally speaks again.

"I do."

Sheets shift. The bed dips slightly, and Art is suddenly very aware that Gasuke has woken up and is sitting next to him.

"Are you thinking of marrying someone?" says Gasuke.

"What?"

"You can, if you want to," Gasuke continues, not noticing Art's confusion. "You'll be thirty soon, and people will expect you to have a wife by then, and many homosexual couples do have daylight spouses—"

"Gasuke," says Art. "If I married someone, wouldn't it be you?"

Gasuke freezes.

"I—" he manages. Art can't see him, can only sense his shadow, but knows he is opening and closing his mouth without words. "I... would be honoured. But would you be fine with that?"

"Me?"

"We would need to go somewhere where it's legal. America, maybe. Still, the moment we reveal we're together... you're uncomfortable around the whispering already, Art." Pause. "The whispering would never end after that. Especially with your looks and your hair – everyone is going to expect you to turn up to work every day in drag, from the Chief all the way down to the greenest officer. Gossip spreads. I don't want to burden you with that at your age, when you've got more to care about than the wishes of an old man."

Art does not answer.

It's a long time before Gasuke finally lies back down, and his warmth returns to Art's side.

"Gasuke?" Art asks.

"What is it?"

"How did you know I was interested in men?"

There's a suffocating laugh.

"From the way you look at Nice all the time." Gasuke turns to lie on his side and accidentally pulls most of Art's blankets away, and his breathing deepens. "G'night, Art. Sleep. Be careful with Nice – his attitude rubs me the wrong way sometimes. You've got work t'morrow."

Art doesn't; at least, not immediately.

He contemplates. While awake, in his sleep, and all the way through the morning.

* * *

The white roses die, and Gasuke replaces them with gifts of red.

Art has never been so sensitive to the crimson colour.

He has never been so jittery when going through his notebook. Circling key points, underlining important phrases. He's never known how much he uses his red pen. Going through the newspaper, skimming, making articles for later reading. They're tendencies he's never been so mindful of before.

But the first time he denies Gasuke's invitation to go out for pancakes, so that he may visit the convenience store and buy some new pens, he feels better.

The first time he accidentally drinks his coffee while forgetting he hadn't yet added sugar, he feels better.

By the time he's thrown his red pens away and switched to purple, he starts feeling human.

And then there's another case, and then Art throws himself into his work—

—and Art doesn't go out to eat sweets again.

* * *

A sparring session arranged with Three becomes a visit to Café Nowhere.

The café is on the way to the police's training room, so Art easily volunteers to pick his sensei up to save him the taxi fare. But when he arrives at Nowhere, Three is not there. Only Koneko's bright welcome and Master's constant presence greet him instead.

"Three and Honey had something urgent to attend to," says Master. His voice is deep, naturally soothing, lotion for allaying disappointment. "I believe he attempted to call you?"

Art checks his phone. He did.

"Thank you for letting me know," says Art. It's not the first time that Three has cancelled, but now Art is left with time to whittle. Art nods, takes a seat at the counter. "Then, may I order a coffee?"

"Of course."

"...Art?"

Art turns around. Nice enters the store, panting. Nowhere's warm lights illuminate a faint sheen of perspiration on his brow.

"Hello, Nice." Art offers a smile.

Nice grins. He takes a few deep breaths, and then he's moving again. The next moment, he's by Art's side, leaning over the counter. His scent washes over Art both unwanted and undesirably, that mix of freshness and nutty. Strange, but wholly fascinating.

"Koneko, do you still have the—"

A folder materialises in Koneko's hand. "Right here!"

What was it that Gasuke'd said about Nice? Art keeps staring at him.

"You're a lifesaver, Koneko."

"Heehee, don't go forgetting it next time. Whoa, you reek! Did you run the whole way back?"

They quibble.

Master has finished Art's coffee, and places it before him. Art is focusing so intently on trying to ignore Nice that he absently declines the container of sugar offered to him with the wave of a hand and has the coffee raised to his lips before he realises it.

Nice notices.

"Hey, Art..." he says.

Art lifts his gaze to Nice over the rim of his cup. The coffee blocks the sight of everything but Nice's head, Nice's sharpened gaze, and Nice's faintly-parted lips moving as he thinks to himself.

It also overpowers Nice's smell. Art's ability to concentrate rises several notches.

"What is it?" says Art.

"Are you okay?" Nice frowns. "Something on your mind?"

_You._

"I'm fine, personally." Art takes another sip, tries to get the caffeine in his system. "Simply... tired. I am certain that sugar is the last thing my body requires as of now."

Nice's lips turn downwards; the reply doesn't please him. Nice glances around the café for a moment, eyes hovering on Master and Koneko and Ratio in one corner – who Art hadn't noticed was present until Nice looked at him. He blinked, and then nodded.

Affirming his decision.

"If you say so, Art." There's a lilt that suggests Nice has more to say. He doesn't say it, hefting the folder under his arm instead. "I'm off to finish this job. Catch you around."

He leaves.

It's not until Art returns to his car that he realises he'd slipped into formalities when answering somebody close to him again.

* * *

One day, Art cuts himself when shaving.

He ends up pressed close to the mirror, peering intently into its depths and at the imaginary images within. He searches for the cut, fingers parted: one on his cheek, one on his chin. He can't find it.

A flash of red catches his eye, but it's not blood. It belongs to the vase of red roses Gasuke'd brought on his last visit. Art has not met with Gasuke for over a week. The red roses are drooping, turning black, petals wrinkling, slowly dying.

Art gives up searching for the cut even though the phantom pain remains; he rinses the razor, puts the blade set away.

There's a text message on his phone.

_I miss you. When can we meet again?_

* * *

It's Valentine's Day.

Or it soon will be. It's the first time Art's been so aware of it; the shops have already begun setting up their displays: cascades of chocolate, chocolate-making materials, and blinding amounts of red are in almost every window in every street in every city.

Valentine's Day. When it is the duty of every female to give chocolate to the men around her. Obligation chocolate to male friends and co-workers, and homemade chocolate for those they love. Art remembers Valentine's Day as the day in which he has no need to buy sweets because others gift them to him. But it's different this year.

This year he has Gasuke.

Art isn't sure what leads him inside one of the stores. There's an arrangement of chocolates in the front, like the sweeping bow of a grand ship splitting red petal waterfalls and red fabric oceans. The red hypnotises him, whispers responsibilities in his ears; deafening amidst the ebb and flow of people, the building breathing the thousands of voices discussing their plans. He's swept by the current and joins the sea.

"Homemade reverse chocolate?" exclaims the sales assistant, touching her hands together before her chest. "What a lucky girl you have, your relationship is enviable!"

Buy this here, and that, and you'll also need this here, too, in order to make your own. And she informs him of the process, whilst merchandising more and more items away, politely and smoothly, words echoing the hundreds of times she must have done it before. She hands him over to the cashier. As Art pays, he sees her pick up another customer and walk them through an identical process, pointing and gesturing at the same angles and speaking with the same inflections in her tone.

Art is thanked robotically when he leaves. He becomes part of the waves moving along the footpaths, shopping bag in hand, carrying gifts he would not be giving had he not bowed before the great throne of marketing.

Another acquisition from the conveyor belt of an annual production line.

* * *

"Hey, Art!"

It's Nice again. It always is. Art cannot even return to his own apartment without bumping into the man.

Art attempts a smile. It's strained. "Nice."

Then he tries to leave, because he's still holding the chocolate-making materials, and needs to put them away. He can't leave, because Nice is in the way, and he isn't letting Art pass. Instead, he's staring at the bag by Art's side so bluntly that Art begins to bristle; in part from Nice's obnoxiousness, and in part from creeping fear.

Art has spent years cultivating the components of his personality. Calm politeness to cloak self-hatred. Love for others' successes to smother jealousy. Achievements and social acceptance to dampen the absence of Minimum. Layer by layer they seal away the demon in the abyss.

But the more Nice stares at the bag, the more Art feels him reaching. Emotions most intimate and secrets most hidden.

_Keep out_, thinks Art, and tries to leave again.

Nice is not moving.

"That's stuff for Valentine's chocolate, isn't it?" asks Nice.

Reluctantly, Art nods. "It is."

A stick of dango protrudes from Nice's mouth. Another stick is in one hand. Nice's lips are curved around one of the sweet, doughy balls; he tugs it off the skewer with a sideways action of his mouth, then proceeds to chew.

"You realise guys aren't supposed to give girls chocolate, yeah?" he says.

Art does. He'd been subjected to many stares. Eyes and eyes wondering who he was, so many eyes that his usual suppression methods were not enough to stave off memories from Facultas that he'd rather leave sleeping.

"That is true. However, there is in fact a slowly-emerging practice of 'reverse chocolate', in which the male gives chocolate to the woman," Art replies. He'd done his research.

Nice makes a thinking sound as he pulls off another dango.

"You've been really standoff-ish, Art." Nice squints slightly, tilts his head so his tongue can reach food stuck in his far gums. "It's mainly around me, I think. I dunno if I insulted you. Have this."

He offers the other stick of dango. Because Art is being given the sweet instead of being asked if he would want some, he has no choice but to accept and comply.

"Thank you," he says, slowly.

Nice raises his eyebrows expectantly. "Are you going to eat it?"

Is he?

Carefully, Art takes a bite. The change in topic is enough to let him lower his guard, although the eyes around him are not.

"It's sweet," he says.

Nice polishes off the last of his and wipes his mouth with his fingers. "Of course it is. What, when was the last time you had something like this?"

Art is silent for so long, trying to remember, that Nice's smile vanishes completely.

"It's not just that day at Nowhere, is it?" Nice concludes. "Not just your coffee, either. You haven't been eating sugary snacks for a while."

_I haven't._

Thin breath passes through Art's lips. He doesn't want to talk about it. If subtlety won't sway Nice and allow him to pass, then it would have to be frankness he uses instead.

"I must be going—" he begins.

"You've changed a lot, Art." Nice's gaze has never been so sharp, so penetrating. "You're falling for all those stupid commercial things and you've even given up on sugar. Is it your relationship with Gasuke?"

Art stiffens, blood freezing. "How did you..."

"So you two _are_ together," says Nice.

It takes a moment. Art draws his barriers in.

Nice has tricked him.

"_You_—"

Art is the one who has confessed his sin.

"I'm really happy for you, Art," says Nice. "But, you know? Not all change is good."

Art clenches the bag in his hand. Laminated paper contorts, crackles in pain. The sound is drowned out by the pulse thundering between Art's ears and the sharp clicking of his teeth as they lock into position. "Who are you to decide what's good for me?"

"Nobody," Nice replies. "Keep doing what you're doing, making the choices you want to. The old man's never been happier. I just wanted to make sure you wouldn't have any regrets."

_That's so kind of you._ To shred Art's carefully constructed self-control into confetti. _Would you like a parade for your good deed?_

Art will later wonder how he hadn't grabbed Nice by the collar, felt the fabric of his jacket sliding within his hands. He'll wonder why he hadn't stepped forward and shaken the arrogance out of him there and then. But it's not any mystery. He is Art: the calm, polite gentleman without self-hate; who loves others' successes without jealousy; and is accomplished despite having no Minimum.

Not the chaotic abyss.

Somebody highly integrated into the greater society, capable of civilised interaction. Capable of considering other people.

So Art had simply loosened his grip on the bag, ignored all the eyes he could feel watching him, and given Nice a brilliant smile.

"It's not necessary," Art tells him. Perfect. Controlled. Serene. "In love, there are no regrets."

Nice stares at him for a long moment. Then he lifts the skewer he's holding above his head, against the sunlight. He loosens his grip, teasingly, but the skewer remains; sticky sugar clinging to his fingers and refusing to fall. The grip tightens in response, and the skewer rolls back and forth.

Nice lowers his arm before looking back to Art.

And he remarks, with no inflections in his words and absolutely nothing signifying more: "If you say so."

* * *

It's Valentine's Day.

Talking with Nice has made him realise for how long he's been neglecting Gasuke, and so he sends him a text saying he's free in the evening. Gasuke responds within minutes, inviting Art to his place at that time.

Art spends the morning wrestling with temperatures, measurements and moulds, trying his best to remember how the chocolate should be made.

By the time he arrives at Gasuke's apartment, he's decided. Well-dressed. Prepared. A small bag is in his pocket.

Gasuke very quickly opens the door and very quickly lets him in—

—and then stumbles when Art pushes him against the wall. His arms seize up – one hand drops a dirty spatula, which clatters – and he tenses, because Art is kissing him. Gasuke recovers before his instincts kick in and throw Art to the ground, but by then Art has already gripped his apron and tilted their heads and forced his lips apart. Strong sandalwood and fiery pepper enters Art's nose, engulfs him as Gasuke's hand makes its way to his waist and to his hair. Art tastes pepper, and soy, and knows at once all the flavours of what Gasuke is making for dinner; lets go of the apron and runs his fingers down the ridges of Gasuke's chest; adopts the flames which are engulfing every fibre of his body and redirects them so that he may set Gasuke on fire as well.

"Wait, Art," Gasuke mutters, pulling away as soon as Art begins reaching beneath his shirt. His face is crimson. "Can we – after—after dinner? Lucky I'm working with – the soup... something would have burned."

Art returns his hands to himself, adjusts how his jacket sits on his shoulders. He's also breathing heavily.

"Y—yes," he says. "Of course. Pardon my..."

He's tapped on the nose.

"No formalities," says Gasuke.

Art blinks, then smiles. "None," he agrees. He pats himself down before pulling out the bag of chocolates he'd made. "This is for you."

Gasuke's eyes widen. But when he takes it, Art's fingers must have hooked on the bow somehow, because when it leaves his hands he ends up undoing the ribbon. It slips; a red string; and falls to the ground amidst twin surprise.

"Don't mind it," says Gasuke, when Art makes to pick it up. "I'll deal with it later. Th... thank you very much, Art. I... also made you chocolate, and got you some presents, in case you were ignoring me because I upset you—"

"No," Art says. "Nice reminded me what was important. I chose it. I chose all of this because I..."

He can't say it.

"Art?"

Art closes his eyes. He takes a deep breath, seeks solace in wood and pepper. The butterflies have returned to his stomach, just as they used to be.

"Gasuke?" says Art. "Can I ask you to do something for me?"

At once, Gasuke is there. "Anything."

"Please kiss me."

He does. It's not intense. Art loses himself in the heat, the fire beginning within his stomach and dripping molten; his lips burn, and the butterflies burn with them. It's a slow kiss, gradual. Red rose petals combusting in candleflame.

Art pulls away first. There's a flash of red beneath one of Gasuke's feet; he'd stepped on the ribbon.

Without hesitation, Art sheds his gills and fins and embraces fiery humanity.

"Gasuke," he says, before he drowns. "I love you too."

* * *

**/FIN/**


End file.
